


Rota Fortunae

by AuteurOnirique



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Eleanor POV, F/F, F/F/F, Femslash, Some angst, and come to get and offer support, basically a cuddling fic, but they're also very tired, nothing but kisses happens tho, they all survived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuteurOnirique/pseuds/AuteurOnirique
Summary: “Insanam autem esse aiunt, quia atrox, incerta instabilisque sit;”they say she's insane, because she is cruel, flaky and unstable; - Pacuvius (Scaenicae Romanorum Poesis Fragmenta)Eleanor rescued Abigail from the fort and delivered her to Miranda. Now it's Miranda's and Abigail's turn to rescue her, if only for one night.





	Rota Fortunae

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, 
> 
> thanks so much for clicking on the title! This was a little fic I originally posted on tumblr but decided to post it here as well. I didn't really plan anything about this fic, I had just remembered the passage in the series where Abigail runs into Miranda's arms and Miranda looks at Eleanor, and I just thought: well, you know what... 
> 
> Writing Eleanor was a delight, and writing an all-female OT3 was even more so! This is like the first OT3 I write, but I enjoyed it! I hope you do too and, if you could read and comment, that'd make me really happy! =)

When one is brought to live -and run- an island the pirates call home, one quickly understands that genius is only a form of madness. After all, who would ever dare defy an empire and succeed if not someone purely mad and utterly genius? That conclusion had always highly disgruntled Mr Scott who had done all he could to prove her wrong. Sadly for him, Flint had arrived in Nassau, the maddest of them all, the most genius of them all, and had proved her right.

The lesson she had remembered from Mr Scott was this: when one wants to deal in absolutes, one will have absolute success and absolute failure. This was probably why so many ‘pirates’ refused to follow the most genius plans and looked at her as if she was utterly mad.

This was probably why she felt she had lost everything tonight.

Vane was coming after her. She intimately knew what Vane was capable of. She knew that she was going to loose everything. He was going to kick the pillar of her foundations and she was going to have to watch everything crumble.

But there was nothing she would have changed. Except, maybe, bring better tools for opening that gate.

The gentle breeze of the night felt freezing on her cheeks, her shoulders ached and she couldn’t feel her legs anymore. She could taste blood in her mouth, burning her lungs, and feel it run down her forearms from where she had cut her hands on the rusted gate.

She could also feel Abigail’s tiny hand in hers, cold from having passed so many days in a damp cell. She could hear Abigail’s short breaths behind her, as she struggled to keep up the pace.

She had won everything Flint needed for his plan, so she was going to loose everything from Vane’s revenge. When you spin the Wheel of Fortune one way, it’s going to come back to you full force. But she wouldn’t have let Abigail in the fort for the world. Not after what she had seen what Vane allowed his men to do. Once is a mistake, twice is your own damned fault.

When they finally reached the tavern, Eleanor gently tugged her hand out of Abigail’s grip, pushing her behind her as gently as she could, so she could watch if any of Vane’s men were waiting for them already.

There was no one in sight. Only Mrs Barlow, already standing up, worried and disbelieving.

Ah, that will teach her, Eleanor thought, that will teach her that I get what I want. That will teach her that I’m a genius.

A genius and a madwoman, Mr Scott’s voice in her mind added.

Eleanor stepped aside to reveal Abigail and allow her to see that she hadn’t lied, that she was safe, that she had brought her to Mrs Barlow. Or Lady Hamilton, as she had called her.

She watched Abigail walk past her, away from the nightmare, to the cradle of Mrs Barlow’s arms. The certainty with which Abigail threw herself in the arms of whom Eleanor assumed was nearly a stranger made something feel tight in her chest.

The reflex with which Mrs Barlow closed her arms around Abigail, holding her tight, contrasted with the bewildered eyes Mrs Barlow fixed away from Abigail, straight at Eleanor, made something churn in her chest.

It felt like envy. She was witnessing the end of the terrible nightmare Abigail just lived through and the start of her own. It felt like greed, like the peace and stability Flint will bring her back from Charlestown wouldn’t be enough to quell the raw, desperate loneliness Eleanor felt in this moment. It felt like she was watching the Wheel of Fortune carry Abigail up, away from her, while she was getting pulled under.

It was an ugly feeling, Eleanor recognized, it tore through her, it stung, throbbed, and burnt, just like her bloody hands. One she knew she could bear and survive. And past the hurt, there was relief. Abigail was safe. That didn’t fix her previous mistakes, but that was one thing she could tell herself she had done right. Destroying oneself had that addictive taste of the things that come too easily. Guilt tasted like sea water and sand.

Abigail had told her she was a formidable woman. Maybe this was how formidable people felt. Endlessly in pain.

Eleanor jumped when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Eme by her side, looking at her hands with a frown. Eleanor smiled sheepishly, as if she had only stolen a cookie from the cookie jar instead of angering Charles Vane. Eme just shook her head in a very Mr Scott-like attitude, before gently guiding her upstairs, to her bed, where the bandages were. Eme always kept her well-supplied.

« What have you done, Eleanor? » Eme asked as she cleaned the cuts on her palms.

« Something purely mad and fucking genius, I’m afraid, » Eleanor answered, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back against the wall.

***

The bottle was empty.

Fuck, Eleanor thought.

Fuck had been on her mind a lot lately.

She had tried to calm her thoughts, numb herself, forget everything while she still had the opportunity to do so. Tomorrow, she’d have to deal with the chaos she created.

Well, at least, she created this one herself, instead of having her father impose it on her. She had even surprised herself by thinking somewhat positively that she had survived one Charles-Vane-crisis before, and that she might survive this one.

If not, well, at least, Abigail will be safe, with Mrs Barlow, preferably away from all this. Would Abigail think about her, when she receives the news of her ruin? Would she think about the formidable woman who rescued her like a knight from a fucking fairy tale?

No, Eleanor thought, no, Abigail didn’t believe in knights anymore.

Her eyes were closed but she didn’t feel sleepy, just tired. Her head was floating on a restless sea but she didn’t feel drunk. This rum was weak, that’s what it was.

Would Mrs Barlow think about her, when she receives news of her ruin? Would she think: oh well the silly girl courted the noose? Good riddance? Like half of Nassau. Would she think about her in a distant nostalgic way like a half-blurry memory that didn’t really matter?

Why would Eleanor care? She was still alive, wasn’t she? She was still alive and she shouldn’t have to drink weak rum all alone.

She wondered if she could find a girl in the brothel. Probably not, now that Max owned it. She rose from her bed, the room only swimming a little, and held on to the dresser in order to follow a straight line out of the nook in her office she called a bedroom.

She made a grimace at herself when she closed the door to her office a bit too loudly. She shushed at the door and then started to giggle to herself for shushing at the door, and then she shushed herself.

Maybe that rum wasn’t this weak. Maybe it was only weak because she had tasted blood earlier in the evening.

She could hear the patrons drinking downstairs, a mess of voices, shouts, clatter, roars… It felt too loud suddenly. She didn’t want to see loud, sweaty, messy men. She didn’t want to appear in this state either. She pressed her back against the wall of the corridor that lead to the kitchens. They would probably be busy down there as well.

Eleanor suddenly felt a wave of loneliness and helplessness crash over her. She remembered being swept away by a wave she had felt she could take on the beach one day. Mr Scott had taught her how to swim, but there’s nothing you can do when the wave takes you with it. You can kick and fight but you still end up taken away, away from the beach….

Here she was, waxing poetics over a wave in the middle of the night, after merely a bottle of weaker-than-blood rum. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She should go back to her room before she made a spectacle of herself in front of…

« Miss Guthrie? Miss Guthrie, are you alright? »

The soft voice. She could hear it in her mind. The soft lovely voice. When was the last time she had heard such a soft, polite voice…

« Miss Guthrie, you are drunk, come with us, » Mrs Barlow’s voice brought her back to reality. Eleanor wasn’t a woman of great imagination and it was impossible she had recreated such a unique timbre. It was impossible that she had imagined Mrs Barlow’s voice not being haughty or angry at her.

She opened one eye.

Abigail had cleaned up nicely. There was no dirt on her face and her hair had been delicately combed. It was still a little wet when the end of it laid on the top of her corset. The clothes fit nicely, which was a surprise. They had been Eleanor’s mother’s clothes. She had expected them to be too big for Abigail. The colour looked nice on her.

As she looked down, she saw Mrs Barlow’s arm around Abigail’s waist. The same tight feeling clutched her chest. She closed her eyes again to fight against it.

« Are you going to be sick? » Mrs Barlow asked her, and something in her voice, the smallest smile, perhaps, made her start.

« I can hold my fucking liquor. Just leave me alone. Eme prepared a room for you upstairs. » She said, in the harshest voice she could manage. She kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t watch Abigail react to her rudeness.

She heard footsteps walking away. Good. Now she could be slightly drunk and lonely in peace. She wondered if it would feel better if she opened that cut on her lip again and tasted her own blood.

But rum first.

She opened her eyes, only to find Abigail, alone, watching her. She blushed and lowered her eyes when she got caught staring. Eleanor tried not to chuckle, she really did. Abigail blushed harder and looked down at her shoes.

« What are you doing out there all alone? » Eleanor asked. « Go with Mrs Barlow where it’s safe. »

Abigail only looked up, cheeks still a bit flushed. Eleanor couldn’t look away. She wondered if Abigail’s hands were warm now.

« Come with us. Please. » Abigail whispered.

« I can’t. You’re… You’re all fucking proper ladies, and you’re all… You need to stay away, where it’s safe. »

« I’m safe with you. Come with us. » Abigail repeated.

That girl had guts, Eleanor thought. Most pirates didn’t ask her anything twice, and they hadn’t even seen her do anything remotely as dangerous as stabbing Charles Vane in the back like Abigail had.

Abigail gently took her hand, which made Eleanor jerk away as if she had been burnt. Not this. It brought back too many memories. Abigail took a step back and suddenly, Eleanor felt bad for having pushed her away. Abigail didn’t deserve this. Abigail had reached out after having been hurt so badly.

Eleanor felt at a loss about what to do. This was an unpleasant feeling. She wanted to apologize but she didn’t know if she could say the words. She wanted to explain why but found out she couldn’t.

So she kissed her.

The kiss was a bit brutal. Their teeth clicked together. Eleanor felt Abigail tense and started to withdraw, when she felt Abigail tilt her head up for more. Eleanor’s hands reached for Abigail’s face, holding her there while she kissed her. She didn’t want to do it this way. She wanted to be soft, seduce her maybe, guide her there, look into her eyes and be a good lover. But she was a mess. Her mouth probably tasted like blood and rum. She wanted to be good, but she couldn’t because her shoulders were trembling and her heart was beating so fast in her chest it felt like it could explode. Abigail’s lips were soft and hesitant and wet and a fucking dream.

Eleanor wrenched herself away from her and started apologizing. She probably said ‘fuck’ over three times and she wasn’t sure she even said three sentences. She didn’t have time to finish her litany of ‘fuck’s before she was cut off again but Abigail’s kiss. It was shyer. Abigail merely pressed her lips against hers, hands on her shoulders as she stood on tiptoes to reach her lips with hers. Eleanor stood still, letting Abigail kiss her, feeling as if she had just turned to stone.

Abigail broke the kiss and Eleanor could feel her breath on her cheek for a moment before Abigail took a step back, inviting her without touching her this time.

Eleanor followed.

She watched Abigail’s hair bounce with each of her steps. She felt beckoned. Drawn. Not to a fire that will burn her, but to a warm fireplace. She felt weary and Abigail’s flowing hair and the whisper of her skirts were guiding her towards comfort. She felt like Eurydice.

Abigail reached a door down the corridor. Her hand looked so tiny as she knocked, it felt ridiculous. All the doors should be open to her, always.

Eleanor felt awkward as they waited for the door to open.

She felt quite differently when Mrs Barlow opened the door, wearing only a shift, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders.

Eleanor looked down and searched for an excuse to leave without hurting Abigail, but her mind was reeling from rum and the image of Mrs Barlow looking ready for bed. She looked different, with her hair down. She looked less like the haughty, prude, put-together Puritan woman.

She looked like the witch everyone told tales about. Enchanting, seducing, misleading.

Eleanor felt her cheeks heat up. She looked up just in time to see Mrs Barlow arch an eyebrow at Abigail, a smile playing on her lips. She felt absurdly guilty about kissing Abigail now.

Mrs Barlow stepped aside, letting Abigail in the room. Abigail took a step inside and Eleanor looked back to the corridor, looking for an escape plan.

« Please, » Abigail called and before she knew what she was doing, Eleanor just followed her in.

It felt nice. Just following. Tension suddenly left her shoulders in the warmth of the dimly lit room. She felt exhausted. The kind of fatigue that stuck to your bones and didn’t leave with sleep. She felt weary.

She turned to the bed. Mrs Barlow was sitting here in her thin white shift. She was watching her: « You are tired, » she stated, « you should rest. What you did… was very brave. Thank you. » Her voice was soft again. It felt like a caress on her skin.

Eleanor turned to Abigail. She had removed her own -Eleanor’s mother’s- dress and was stepping out of her shoes in a demure and utterly adorable movement, as if she was stepping in cold water. Abigail smiled at her and suddenly, Eleanor’s heart felt warm. The tightness, a distant memory. She could still feel the warmth of her lips.

She jumped a little when she felt Mrs Barlow start to remove her clothes. She took her jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. Eleanor felt tense. She didn’t know what to do with Mrs Barlow. She didn’t know what to do with herself. It was slightly irritating.

Her hands joined Mrs Barlow’s in undressing her. They frequently bumped each other as they went for the same buttons, the same ties. Soon, Eleanor was in her shift, rougher and lighter than Mrs Barlow’s and Abigail’s. Mrs Barlow pressed a hand on her back, gently but firmly guiding her towards the bed. It was bigger than Eleanor’s (but then again, Eleanor’s bed had been a captain’s berth, stolen for her) but was still only meant for two people.

Mrs Barlow’s eyes were so much softer now. Deep and dark and calm, like the ocean at night. Eleanor surprised herself by longing for this embrace. She knew that Mrs Barlow smelt like tea, earth, and citrus. Warm but cutting, as Eleanor knew. She laid down on the bed, letting her spinning head rest on the pillows. It felt strange. New. A sort of powerlessness that wasn’t threatening.

Mrs Barlow then walked over to Abigail who was just folding her clothes, a little awkwardly. The girl looked up at Mrs Barlow with a dazzling smile, lightening her features with joy and tenderness. Mrs Barlow’s arms wrapped around Abigail’s waist and Eleanor thought they would kiss, just like she had kissed Abigail outside. She felt… curious… about that. How would Mrs Barlow kiss? Would she be softer than Eleanor had been? Would she be tender or passionate? Would she…

Those questions, however, would find no answer tonight. Mrs Barlow, after having glanced at Abigail’s lips like one would look at a Spanish treasure, tilted her head up and kissed Abigail’s forehead. Eleanor noticed Abigail’s sharp intake of breath and the way her lips opened a little, whispering: “Miranda” in a longing tone. But Mrs Barlow… Miranda… only tightened her arms around Abigail, eyes closed as she pressed her lips against Abigail’s forehead.

She cannot, Eleanor thought. She cannot give Abigail what she wants. Not yet, at least. Maybe Abigail was too young. Maybe they hadn’t known long enough. Maybe Miranda was trying to spare Abigail from something only her knew about. Eleanor had never pretended knowing anything about Miranda. She could just watch Abigail’s hand hold Miranda’s as if her life depended on it, as Miranda guided her towards the bed.

Abigail immediately climbed on and went straight for Eleanor’s arms, burying her face in her neck, tucking one of her thighs between Eleanor’s, as if she belonged there. Eleanor didn’t mind. She found that holding a body against her own came back as quickly as a reflex. Abigail’s feet where cold but her breath tickling her neck was very warm and comforting. Eleanor wanted to kiss her again, if only to make up for what Miranda could not do. She wanted to taste those lips again.

Eleanor jumped again when she felt Miranda climb on the bed behind her. The bed would be a little small, but Abigail made up for if with the way she was trying to bury herself right inside Eleanor. She looked over her shoulder to see Miranda draw the covers over them, looking at Abigail with a small smile.

Eleanor felt Miranda’s lithe and unsurprisingly strong body press against her back, her chest against her back, filling her stomach with warmth. She pressed her thighs around Abigail’s, wishing, in a remote corner of her mind, that Miranda’s hand would find its way here. But Miranda just cuddled up against her, stretching her arm until she could arrange the blankets over Abigail’s shoulders.

Eleanor realized, as she felt Miranda’s lips press to the back of her skull, that she hadn’t thought about Charles, Max, Flint, Nassau, or chaos, since she had met Abigail and Miranda in the corridor. She had let herself be borne on waves, let herself be guided, let herself be calm in a way she hadn’t in a very long time.

The sharp, cold, spear of pain returned to her chest, inside, where she couldn’t reach for it. Where she couldn’t control it. She closed her eyes tight and let herself feel the warmth of the bodies surrounding her, let herself be soothed by the cadence of their breaths and the softness of their shifts against hers. She could smell the lavender of Abigail’s hair with the cloying aftertaste of poppies.

Miranda’s fingertips caressed the back of her hand, softly, where the rough bandage was wrapped. The gesture was pensive and surprisingly caring. As if she had just been in her thoughts, Miranda murmured in her ear: « You are still on guard. You don’t have to be. Not here, not now. »

« I’m not sure I want to see myself… off guard. » Eleanor murmured back.

She hadn’t intended to be so frank, to reveal so much. Miranda chuckled, but it was not cutting. It was soft and warm, like her breath in her hair.

« You don’t have to, but it might do you more good than you believe it will, » Miranda answered before lowering her hand to where Abigail’s had settled on Eleanor’s waist.

Mr Scott had said that, when you spin the Wheel of Fortune with full force, it came back at you full force, which just meant that the price of genius was madness. Eleanor found herself crumbling, crying, under the weight of both madness and genius, bringing the wheel down faster.

Through her ugly, uncontrollable sobs, blurred with tears, she could see and feel Abigail and Miranda, holding her, holding the Wheel from pulling her under, at least for a night.

And if they succeeded in Charlestown, they might just break the Wheel before she could drown.


End file.
